San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1887-05-02

ed but seldom and always with breyity.
lie expanded only in the courtroom,
after preparing for its duties with slay-
ish devotion. His law arguments were
clear and cold as an Arctic moon, but
juries were held captive by his nervous
elOquence, and they could not cease
looking ut his eyes, which controlled
them like threat or sOftened them like
a prayer. At the last word he hurried
off to his room, avoiding the compli-
ments men waited to pay. The eccen-
tricties which at first hindered him were
at last an important part of his increaS.
ing success.
For nearly five years John Dean had
lived this severe life. and still slept be-
hind the curtain. Books piled every
where and cabinet full of documents
were the only visible signs of pTOsperi-
ty. Yet he had a large bank account
and an influential name, for million
aires as well as poorer people climbed
his dingy stairway and awaited his con-
yeniepce. They often urged Dean to
take life more lightly and tried to tempt
him to share their social enjOyments.
He always sighed and declined.
But this voluntary OStracism could
not last forever. Once, after a hard
day, he lit his lamp and sat down to
rest before dinner, hearing as in dream
only the shrill voices Of newsbOys, the
rumbling of vehicles and the banging
of doors by departing clerks, who went
OFF whistling. He started. There was
hasty step and into the room bounded
why, gray-whiskered man about 80.
1t was Paul MOXOn, the mining king,
merry as boy.
Great news, Mr.. Dean-great news
from Sacramento! You have won our
case against the Calcutta mine. Half
a million saved to us! Up goes Bengal
stock tomorrow" Then LAYING down
a cheque of five figures he added "Here
are the directors compliments" Dean
sat motiOnless. His thoughts We're far
away. What was the good of none, to
hin,2
| MOXOn continued:
| And now, John Dean, as business is
disposed of, permit me to take liber-
| ty. Why do you live thus when you
might be surrounded by luxury? Then
| your talents, they belong to the state.
| Think what you might do with q wider
ambition. But more of that another
time. At present | mean to get you out
of this hole for an hour or two. My wife
and daughter, just arrived from the
East, Will hold reception tomorrow
night. Now promise me that you will
come. What-yOu don enjoy itp Well,
come for my sake-as an act of friend
ship. You will? Very good. From s
o'clock, with a supper at 10. Now don't
| forget u.s."
Left alone, John Dean began to re-
| greet his promise. The prospect of meet
| ing ladies at Paul MOXOn'S was like the
| breaking of an old vow and made him
uneasy. OF course, this VOW concerned
| Mary AlthOrpe, whom he could neither
forget nor forgive. Ills restlessness
| grew with the evening. and he would
| have found it easier to exercise devils
| than tOsubdue his disturbing memories.
| He dreamed the old dreams, and old
| joys came back like the scent of mbOX-
ed rose leaves. Then the faithessness-
"PeOple call me an iciCle," said he.
| "But DO they know that. frozen lands
| contain the hottest Springsr"
He remembered the only opera he had
| attended in five years "Trayiata;" and
the only play-"East Lynne" and how
he had wept at each performance until
he was ashamed Of himself. His law
books would have started with wonder
could they have witnessed his emotion
| and heard his heart-brOken cry: 81 loved
only her! Witlfher all ove is lOst%
| Next evening when Dean arrived at
| Paul MOXOn's he found the rooms so
denscly crowded that he could not at
first make his way to the hostess. More
| over he was interrupted by the greet
ingS of this man and that who welCOm-
ed his advent into society. Suddenly
the chatter ceased. y young lady was
at the piano playing the prelude to a
| fIhnra N ipnal nn1litu
| in her very touch. But when she began
| to sing:
| "Oh, take me to thy heart again,
And no more will grieYe thee"
there was perfect stiffness. Her voice
was low and delicious and seemed full
| of tears. What was it made John Dean
start so and turn pale? He peered over
| the shoulders of those before him and
saw the back of a young lady dressed
| in plain white satin, with flowers in her
dark hair. lie did not know her "Who
is she?" he whispered to bystander.
"a friend of Mrs. MOXOn's, just from
| the East" She sang on. Her voice
| stirred all John Deans nature. lie
could not get nearer. so he squeezed out
mceremOniOusly, and following the
| hall, came to door giving full view
of the singer. 1t was Mary AlthOrpe!
lu6 Sdllt ldCt, DuI SlCdIIg ItHItu, duu
pale from long sorrow. She was look
ing vacantly at the music, through
| moist eyes. Dean wanted to cry out
to laugh, to weep, to denOunce her, to
| embrace her; to rush away. to remain.
| 1t was very whirlwind of impulse.
She reached the last lines of the song:
'All joys are fled, and hope is dead
Ii indeed must leave thee"
1t was not mere art. There was q
| world of cOntTitiOn and love in her
tones. At the final note warm applause
broke forth from all sides.
Mary AlthOrpe raised her head and
caught John Deans riYeted look. She
started, gave low cry and fell back.
In moment John Dean was on the
| street, ignorant of the confusion into
which the company was thrown by the
fainting singer. He had mistaken the
look. mo loving recognition" he ex-
claimed, but only a guilty glance of
terror" He walked like amadman and
| soon found himself in Ilayes's Valley.
| Then he turned to the scrub and sand
hills lying towards the sea. Barehead-
| ed and Needless of the dews and the
| winds he tOiled over this waste; swing
ing his arms, muttering incOherently
| and starting at his own shadow. He
reached the coast road and turned to
| the left, intending to walk southwark,
| but, hearing a party of jewellers who
| came from that direction, he turned to-
| ward the cliff, which was more than a
mile to the right The dry sand soon